


it's all in the plastic bags

by lowi



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, and niall appears, they are drunk a lot, very slightly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-27 22:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowi/pseuds/lowi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>all the important stuff is in either ASDA, tesco, or lidl bags:<br/>1. harry's silky shirts<br/>2. wine<br/>3. everyday value vodka</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's all in the plastic bags

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlepinkbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlepinkbow/gifts).



Zayn is not particularly fine with it. Still, he tells the woman handing him his new key that ‘no, it won’t be a problem! Don’t worry about it.’ It’s just that she actually does look upset about it. Maybe she was the one who messed up the files or something, putting him in the pile with those having applied for a shared room. If he’s not fine with it, maybe she’ll get, like, fired or something. Still, he is not particularly fine with it.

He’d even been feeling iffy about the fact that the halls he was going to stay in were catered. He’d much preferred making his own meals, all by himself. It’s not that he doesn’t like people. It’s just that he would have liked uni being as different as possible from school. Meaning, no giant cafeterias where all the food is served on trays and tastes kind of like the plastic containers the food no doubt about it has been in before have seeped into every bite, making the food taste like them, like plastic. And, now it’s not as though he’ll get his mum’s food in the evenings at least. Now it’ll be meals like that every single time.

But, well, that one was his own fault entirely, having to stay in catered halls. During summer he’d completely forgotten looking up housing, so when he got an email in the middle of August from the university reminding him to update his term-time address, there wasn’t a single self-catered room left. Unless you counted those that were really far off the central area, and Zayn was not very keen on having to commute. So he’d decided to suck it up and get a room in one of the catered halls.

He just isn’t looking forward to the idea that he’ll have to share that room, is what the problem is. But now he told the lady at the reception that it was fine, so. No way out, really. He gives her a faint smile, tries to listen at all the stuff she rattles off, about where to do laundry and what times food is served and such, and then she hands him a bunch of paper and a set of keys.

‘Right, thanks,’ he says, voice slightly creaky. It’s been a long day, train left Bradford at 6:40 this morning, and then he had to change in Manchester, which added an extra two hours to the travel time.

‘You’re welcome,’ she says. He thinks she seems to have found her bearings again, and he’s glad, really. He doesn’t get it, being mad at people in customer service. It’s not like it’s their fault, most of the time. And if it was, it still wouldn’t solve shit, yelling at them. ‘It’s in the building across the courtyard, two stairs up. Do you need a hand with your luggage?’

‘No, I’ll be fine.’ He’s only got one suitcase, a large sport bag and a backpack. He’ll, really, be fine. He flashes her a quick smile, and leaves the reception area quickly. It’s not exactly crowded, but there’s a slight queue anyway. He’d have thought most people already having arrived, what with Fresher’s Week starting tomorrow, but, well. It’s a large university.

As soon as he enters that other building, someone – almost uncannily fast – approaches him. ‘Need a hand with your bags, mate?’ It’s a blond, thin guy, speaking incredibly quickly. Accent unmistakably Irish. Zayn read this book by Oliver Sachs a couple of weeks ago, _The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat_ , and that person referred to in the title, mistaking his wife for a hat, had a neurological loss which sort of made him focus on details in people’s appearances rather than the full picture. It’s kind of stuck with Zayn since then, and he’s started doing this thing where he picks out features immediately, as though he’s trying to rewire his brain. He can’t really tell why he’s doing it. Unless he’s just checking to see if he can, if it’s possible. To do so by will.

‘Umm, well, yeah. Cheers,’ Zayn says, and tries on some sort of a smile. He’s decided he needs to say yes to kind of everything, now in the beginning. He needs friends. It’s not like it was back home, where he’d known his friends from, like, the moment he was born. Where he didn’t have to actually put any effort into it. They’d just be there. That’s something he’s gonna miss, for sure. ‘I’m Zayn,’ he adds.

‘Niall! Nice t’meet you. So what floor are you on?’

‘Second,’ Zayn says, after a moment of hesitation. Not that he doesn’t know. More like, everything is going a bit too quickly.

‘Right, I’m ground floor. Bet my flat will end up having all the pres, don’ you think? Like, people won’t be arsed climbing stairs but just pile into mine.’ Niall has heaved Zayn’s sport bag up on his shoulder, and grins brightly. Zayn thinks he likes him. He’s got that air about him, a little like his sister Doniya. That kind of bristling energy. ‘What are you studying?’ he continues after Zayn has done some sort of nodding over his shoulder, reaching the first floor.

‘Psychology. Yourself?’

‘Nice! I’m gonna do history. Although I’m thinking of a joint honours, with philosophy. Not decided yet. Oh, is this you?’

Zayn digs out the key of his pockets and looks at the keyring, even though he’s entirely sure this is the room. Number eight. ‘Yeah, it’s the one.’

‘Right, I’ll leave you to it. Hope to see you around!’ Niall’s smile is horrendously bright and Zayn suddenly feels like he’ll die if Niall leaves him around. He swallows.

‘Yeah, definitely. Thank you so much for your help!’

‘No worries!’ Niall is already down the stairs, so Zayn takes a deep breath. Maybe he can find him on Facebook, like right now, and add him, and make sure he never disappears out of his life. He will need at least one friend to do this. He carefully opens the door to his new room and steps inside. The lights are off, which he supposes is good. Then his new roommate shouldn’t be in. He kind of feels like sitting down and try and take it all in. He’s going to share a fricking room with someone for, like, ten months. Ten months without any alone-time, pretty much.

He turns on the lights. The room is kind of big but, what looks like exactly half of the room (like, were there a line drawn through the middle of the room it would be right _there_ ), is covered in stuff. There are three suitcases, one sport bag much similar to Zayn’s, and several big ASDA bags on the floor. Zayn was worried he was bringing too much stuff, but he clearly shouldn’t have.

He sits down on the bed, the one that’s not completely covered in clothes and one empty bag. He’s surprised the guy he’s sharing with isn’t in, since it looks like he was in the middle of unpacking.  

He lies down on the bed, closing his eyes. That’s when he realises that, no, he’s probably not alone. From behind the wall, he can hear the sound of water running. The bathroom must be there. There’s another sound too, a less monotonous – oh. This is a bit awkward. Someone, presumably Zayn’s new roommate for the entire year, is crying. Zayn has no idea what to do. He’s kind of awful with people crying.

He sits down on the empty bed. He’s not sure if he should alert his new roommate that he’s there, by like, making a noise or something. He could probably bang his suitcase into the steel leg of his bed, and then loudly say ‘Shit!’ but he’s not sure he could pull it off.

He doesn’t need to think much longer. The bathroom door opens and out steps this lanky creature, wet hair curling down just beneath his tattooed collarbones. He’s very naked also. They just stare at each other. The guy seems frozen, and his face is very puffy, eyes red-rimmed. Zayn blinks quickly, trying to decide where to put his hands, as they’re just lying like dead fishes in his lap. Terribly awkward, really. It’s not fair, seeing as Zayn is the one that’s dressed and composed and everything. The other guy should be feeling awkward, not Zayn.

‘Hi,’ the guy says at last. It’s particularly weird that he’s not, like, attempting to cover himself. ‘I’ve not been crying,’ he adds.

‘Right,’ Zayn replies. He might sound a bit too sarcastic, but honestly, this whole situation is so incomprehensibly strange that he has no idea how to deal with it.

‘I, um, I smoke. Weed. You know, marijuana.’ The guy, while looking rather frantic, is also speaking very slowly. So that it doesn’t match the franticness in his eyes. Zayn just wants him to put on pants, however. ‘Like, that gives you red eyes, right,’ the guy adds. He sounds so unsure of himself it’s on the verge of endearing.

Zayn nods. ‘Of course, mate. I’m Zayn.’ He stands up and stretches out a hand. He’s decided he’s not going to mind that this person he’s shaking hands with doesn’t have a single piece of clothing on. Probably for the better, if they’re going to share a room for a year. Like, there would be moments similar to this at some point anyway.

‘I’m Harry. Nice to meet you!’ Harry’s face sort of lights up in a smile, and Zayn can’t help but smile back. ‘You really did surprise me; I wasn’t sure when you’d get here.’

‘Yeah, didn’t mean to scare you, sorry.’

‘No worries!’ Harry turns over to his bed and pulls on a pair of tight boxers. ‘I hope it’s okay I chose this side of the room? I felt more harmony over here.’ He’s now struggling to get a very silky shirt over his head, getting stuck in one of the sleeves. Zayn thinks of helping him out for a split second, but that would be too weird so he sits back down on the bed.

‘Nah, this is fine. I don’t mind. Where are you from?’

‘Holmes Chapel, yourself?’ Harry retorts when he’s got his head through the shirt. It’s odd, because now he starts unbuttoning it. Like he’s getting undressed again. Zayn decides not to worry about it.

‘Bradford. Wait, doesn’t that mean we would have been on the same train from Manchester?’

‘Oh, no, I arrived a week ago!’ He grins towards Zayn, and then looks down at his feet and the ASDA bags around them. ‘Yeah, I haven’t unpacked much yet. Like the closet is nice and all, but I need to give it time. To like, let my stuff find its right place. Where it is meant to be, you know?’

Zayn has no idea what he means, but he nods anyway. It’s not what he’d expected, this new roommate of his. On the other hand, he hadn’t expected a new roommate whatsoever so. He’ll just try and get through it.

-

Zayn’s arms feel really heavy. Like, when he tries to lift them it feels like someone is hanging from his sleeves, lots of tiny but really heavy people hanging there, dragging his arms down. He tries telling Harry this, but Harry doesn’t seem to hear him.

Or it’s the fact that the music is so loud, he’s not sure. They’re sitting rather closely on the sofa, thighs pressed against each other even, so Harry should be able to hear him. But Harry has got his head bent backwards, and grins towards the ceiling. They’re _so_ drunk. Zayn’s got no idea how they got to this state, but he doesn’t mind. Not right now at least. He’s happy the way he is. The party they’re at is so busy, in the flat of some third-year that Harry had started chatting to in the library if Zayn remembers correctly (and he’s not sure why Harry already is in the library when they’ve basically just started their first week of lectures, but Harry had said he just wanted to breathe in the smell of learning, to be prepared for beginning his studies, and Zayn had laughed straight in his face because, like, what the fuck, their library isn’t even old and fancy or anything, but this 70’s building that’s really quite ugly). Zayn was also amazed at how Harry had dared to talk to a third-year just like that, but he hadn’t said this to Harry. Over the past week they’ve actually hung out quite a lot. Zayn really likes that. He puts a hand on Harry’s knees and squeezes. ‘Whatcha smiling for?’ he asks.

This time Harry reacts, even though he doesn’t move from his upwards-bent position over the sofa. He grins, impossibly but still happening, even wider. ‘I don’t know. Having fun, I suppose.’

Zayn’s got no idea of how long they’ve been sat here at the sofa, but the music keeps blasting out from the speakers and he doesn’t know anyone at this party, and yet he’s having so much fun, too. He tells Harry this, the last bit, and then he thinks of getting them another drink. He’s quite certain he’d stumble if he stood up, however, so he keeps quiet after all.

‘I like your necklaces,’ Harry says all of a sudden, now stretching up. He drags his feet up beneath him so he sits cross-legged in the sofa. He does it impressively gracefully, considering he’s so drunk (and considering he’s Harry) since he only bumps into the table with his knee once, but while the table’s covered in glasses and bottles only one rattles over. When he turns around, so he’s facing Zayn rather than sitting opposite him, he puts his elbow into the girl next to him’s back, but she smiles and tells him not to worry when he starts apologizing. The other day, Harry dropped a bottle of milk all over his bed when he got back from the kitchen. So, yes, Zayn is impressed. Then Harry grabs one of his necklaces and studies it closely. His curls are all up in Zayn’s nose, and Zayn thinks, again, that he’s too drunk, since his mind keeps sidetracking all the time. Plus, Harry’s hair smells nice.

‘Yeah?’ he says, smiling when Harry’s dropped the necklaces and leant backwards a little. He’s still closer than before, however, with his face, like. Thighs are obviously further away. Zayn’s too drunk.

‘They’re very pretty. Do you want another drink?’ Harry asks, smiling, almost looking a little shy. Zayn’s probably imagining that, though.

‘Umm. Yeah.’ He’s got no idea why he said yes, because as stated, he’s far too drunk already. But Harry’s already up and away and Zayn can’t stop looking at his back, where he’s awkwardly shuffling past people to get to the fridge where he and Zayn stored their wine when they arrived. Zayn had felt really pretentious bringing wine to a flatparty, but Harry had told him that the girl who had invited him was really artsy, so they’d be revealed as unexperienced freshers immediately if they brought vodka coke, which had been Zayn’s suggestion. When Zayn looks at the table, on the other hand, he counts to three half empty Tesco Everyday Value Vodka bottles. He kind of feels like pointing this out to Harry, but Harry isn’t back yet.

‘What’s your name?’ The girl Harry elbowed earlier leans over the empty space and stretches out a hand to Zayn. She’s got dark hair and pretty eyes and her hand is nicely cool. Zayn might be sweating. He’s not sure, but then he grabs her hand anyway.

‘Zayn, you?’

‘Sophia. Nice to meet you. What are you studying?’ They start the conversation Zayn’s had with approximately a million people over the last week, which follows exactly the same pattern as always. She’s nice, though, and he doesn’t mind. Then suddenly someone taps at his foot with a sock-clad foot.

‘Harry?’

‘Here’s your wine.’ Harry hands him a glass, filled to the rim. He looks at the two of them with a kind of dazed of look. His own glass is just half-full, but in the other hand is the wine bottle, and he immediately fills up the glass, where he’s standing. ‘Do you want to go outside for a smoke, Z?’

Zayn feels a little thrown off, but when he turns over he sees that Sophia has turned to chat with the guy on her other side. ‘Umm, yeah. Sure.’ He it when Harry calls him ‘Z’, he notices. He can’t completely figure out why he likes it so much, but he stands up anyway. Apparently he wobbles, because Harry grabs him around his upper arm and gives him a tentative smile.

There’s something itching inside Zayn when Harry’s fingers lets go of his arm, but he tries not to think of it. ‘Wasn’t aware you smoked,’ he says when they are outside, on the small street. Zayn really can’t wait until next year when he’ll be able to get a flat like this. He thinks for a split second that he hopes he can still live with Harry. Like, having their own proper flat. With their own bedrooms but a shared bathroom and kitchen. Maybe a living room. Large windows, which Zayn can smoke from.

‘I don’t, not really,’ Harry says. He still takes a cigarette when Zayn offers him one, and then he puts the wine bottle in his armpit so he can light the cigarette, after Zayn’s handed him his lighter. ‘Just wanted to get outside for a while. With you.’ He grins again, but there’s something a bit soft around his face. Zayn can’t quite specify why or what that is, so he light his own cigarette with one hand, the other clutching his wine glass. He has no idea where Harry’s glass has disappeared to, but Harry seems content with sipping straight from the bottle. They sit down on the little wall surrounding the miniscule garden outside the two-story house the party’s in. The street is so empty, and Zayn is a little surprised at the difference. Like, there are a few other people from the party outside, presumably for smoking as well, but it’s still so dark and quiet, all opposite of the brightness and pounding music inside.

Harry starts coughing, then, like, proper fit, bending over and all. Zayn puts a hand on his back and grabs the wine bottle before it would crash to the ground. He’s sure it would and he’s not sure he could stand the sound of glass against concrete right now. When Harry sits up again, Zayn leaves his hand on his back. There are tears in Harry’s eyes and he blinks so much, but doesn’t wipe at his eyes. Zayn’s not certain if Harry’s, like, proper crying, or just that he’s got tears in his eyes from getting wine down the wrong throat or something. It could be both. Since Harry cried in the shower, that first time they met when he said he’d been in fact busy getting high, Harry’s not talked of weed even once. Plus, he’s been crying quite often. Like, every night. Zayn is rather sure Harry thinks he’s not noticed, because it’s only in the nights and he does it really quietly. Zayn wakes up every time though. He’d like to ask Harry about it, but he’s not been sure how to. He curls his fingers around the fabric of Harry’s t-shirt and rubs his hand up and down Harry’s spine a little. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, thanks.’ Harry sniffles. He’s not looking at Zayn. Zayn thinks that if they kissed right now, he wouldn’t mind. Maybe they’re both, like, drunk, but Zayn surely wouldn’t mind. It’d be nice, he’s positive about that. Making out when tipsy is the best thing in the world. And Harry is so nice and funny, and he’s got nice hair and, like, he’s a bit weird but in this really fascinating way, so he’d probably be a really strange, intense kisser as well. Like, his hands and all. Are just nice. Plus, Zayn doesn’t like it how sad Harry is all the time. He could cheer Harry up if he kissed him, he’s pretty sure. It’s hard being sad with someone’s tongue in your mouth. He moves his hand from Harry’s back and quickly grabs Harry’s free hand. Harry looks down at it.

‘Do you –‘ Zayn begins, but stops himself when Harry sniffles loudly again.

‘Can I tell you something?’ Harry asks, and this time Zayn is sure that Harry actually is crying, and not only tearing up from trying to smoke a cigarette without dying. Zayn nods, quickly. His stomach is, like, trying to tell him that he doesn’t want to hear this. But he can’t leave, honestly. He got himself this far. ‘I just feel, like, I need to talk to someone about it, and, er, you’re, like, you’re my closest friend here and er, I don’t know,’ Harry rambles.

‘What is it?’ Zayn says. He might be sounding too harsh, but he can’t stop looking at Harry’s lips and it feels like he’s missed his chance. Harry’s still holding his hand, though.

Harry turns so he’s facing Zayn more directly, dark, sweaty hair curling at his temples. ‘I don’t know how to be single,’ Harry says at last. It’s kind of cryptic, and then Harry’s lower lip starts shivering which doesn’t particularly help at all. Zayn feels like an awful person for wanting to kiss Harry even more than before now.

‘What d’ya mean?’ he asks. He tries to look Harry in his eyes, but he’s rather transfixed with Harry’s lips. Hopefully Harry doesn’t notice. He seems busy focused on not bursting out crying again. Zayn quickly rubs Harry’s hand again, to feel less like a shitty person and more like a comforting friend.

‘Just before I, er, left for uni, I got, like, dumped. And we’ve been together for five years. Like, um, that’s my entire adolescence. I just, well, I just don’t know how to not, er, be in a relationship. You know?’ Harry’s eyes are overflowing with tears by now. Zayn doesn’t know what to do, at all. He keeps rubbing Harry’s hands. Logically speaking, he shouldn’t be thinking about making out with Harry, because, like, from what Harry’s telling him right now, he’d just be Harry’s rebound. Emotionally speaking, he shouldn’t either, because Harry is first and foremost his friend, and he should be trying to comfort him and most of all not be taking advantage of Harry being in this vulnerable state. And thirdly, well, it’s really creepy he can’t stop thinking about the way Harry’s skin is so soft against his fingers.

‘Why did you get dumped?’ Zayn asks. ‘Like, who’d ever dump you,’ he adds flatly. It sounds like he’s just saying it because he’s supposed to, but he kind of really actually means it.

Harry keeps sniffling. Kind of gross, to be honest, with the way he’s wiping at his nose. Zayn doesn’t care though, which is a bad sign. He’d still make out with him, and that really only speaks loads about who he is a person. Here someone is sitting next to him having a crisis, and he’s focusing on how he’d kiss him even though he’s, like, covering the back of his hand in snot. Zayn’s blaming the wine and nothing else. ‘He figured we shouldn’t be dating when we were going to different unis and all. Like, we should be exploring, experience, um, our youths, or something like that is what he said.’

Zayn isn’t sure what to responds, but he offers Harry another cigarette and then they sit in silence for a long while.

-

It’s really odd, everything. Like, Zayn’s come to realise, over the last couple of weeks, that it’s impossible to get a date with someone you’re sharing a room with. It, like, just doesn’t work out. He’s also been berating himself over this, since Harry is still really sad and still cries quietly every now and then, so Zayn shouldn’t be going around trying to figure out how to get a date with him. He just can’t help it.

Like now, when they’ve made breakfast in the kitchen they share with six other people. And are sat opposite each other in silence, Harry sipping on a homemade smoothie, Zayn eating really boring cereal. Like, this is date-y. But since they share a fricking room, it’s also not date-y at all but really completely normal. And, a few days ago, Zayn asked Harry if he wanted to come with him to the cinema, and Harry did, and it still wasn’t at all like a date. More like the same way if Zayn had asked his sisters or something back home.

He’s enjoying this, too, truly, like just being with Harry. Because he’s still really funny and a little odd, but then the other day they went to the library together to get stuff done for their first assignments, Zayn having to do an essay on cognitive learning and Harry an essay on Chaucer, and they’d grabbed desks really far away from each other since Harry had said he wouldn’t get anything done if he had had Zayn in eyesight. Zayn hadn’t been able to stop himself from feeling like Harry might have just slightly flirted with him, or at the very least given him a compliment. But yeah. Date’s not happened and Zayn has literally no idea how to make it happen either.

‘What’s your class again this morning?’ he asks, going up to get more hot water and add to his cup. He’s already refilled twice, so the teabag is soon to be completely empty of flavour, but. It’s very early. He needs his tea.

‘British history,’ Harry murmurs, swallowing down some of his smoothie. His got a bit of green on his nose. Zayn tried the smoothie the other day and it tasted horrendously. ‘It’s about, em, Cromwell today.’ He flicks through the sheets he’s brought with him to the kitchen table. Neatly highlighted and all. Zayn is mildly impressed by the fact that Harry reads through his slides before every single lecture, and he’s also finding it alarmingly cute. Just. Like, alarming, since it’s a completely pointless thing to find cute.

‘Right,’ Zayn says, leaning against the counter instead of sitting back down at the table. He just noticed that Harry’s legs are sprawled out underneath. It’s a miracle they didn’t bump into each other before. ‘Do you, like, want to grab lunch with me?’

Harry flips open his tiny moleskine notebook, and Zayn thinks to himself that in a way it’s good he’s harbouring this crush on Harry, or he’d find the guy disgustingly pretentious, really. ‘Yes, should be fine,’ Harry says, smiling broadly up at Zayn. He’s still got some smoothie on his face.

-

They’re in a club. And Harry’s got his hands on Zayn’s hips. Like, actually. On his hips. Zayn is very drunk but Harry’s hands are on his hips, he knows that. Also, Harry’s curls are all sweaty and clinging to his face and his shirt is even more obscenely open than it was when they arrived at predrinks and Niall yelled ‘Cover ya tits, Styles,’ when he saw them.

Harry’s way of dancing is very much like clinging onto Zayn and occasionally still lose his balance and bump into people around them. It’s so crowded, though. Zayn doesn’t really mind, or he does, but it’s fine. He shouldn’t have drunk that much. They did shots back at pres, and then they did some more shots here, and also on the way, Liam, this other guy, had brought his half-full bottle of vodka with him for some stupid reason so they tried finishing it while walking to the club, passing it around between themselves. Zayn is so drunk. He puts his hands on Harry’s waist, when Harry stumbles a little. ‘Tuneeeee,’ Harry yells then, when a new songs come on. He’s literally beaming. At predrinks, arranged by the English Lit society, to which Harry had brought Zayn and Niall and Liam (even though they’d protested a little, since neither of them did literature), there had been this nice girl Jesy, putting facepaint on everyone. Harry’s has become all smeared out, but it’s glow-in-the-dark paint, so he looks a bit like a blue alien or something like that. It’s even on his lips.

‘Do you want to come with me outside for a cigarette?’ Zayn asks, quickly. He’s sure he’d kiss Harry otherwise and he doesn’t know if that’s a good idea.

Harry is still beaming. ‘What?’ he laughs, one hand sliding up Zayn’s side and then leaving so he can push some hair out of his face.

‘Outside? Smoke?’

Harry nods, turns over after grabbing Zayn’s hand. Zayn is so drunk, so he decides that’s why he’s feeling like there’s butterflies in his stomach. Nothing else. As they are just about to go out, Harry suddenly stops and turns around, facing Zayn. He’s sort of towering over Zayn. ‘Would you mind terribly if I, like, made out with you right now?’ He looks a bit fretful, and he’s rubbing his thumb over the back of his other hand. ‘I really like you, you know. So, I, er, would like to kiss you. If that’s okay. With, er, you.’

Zayn shakes his head and then he nods and then shakes his head again because he can’t remember what the question was. Harry looks confused, so he kisses him. The butterflies return again and this time Zayn knows it’s not because he’s drunk, truly.

At some point, Zayn’s not sure, being way too focused on the fact that Harry is indeed a very intense kisser and that he does some weird things, like, seeming strangely focused on Zayn’s tongue more than anything else, at some point, they get out of the club. Zayn doesn’t remember much else.

-

It’s a couple of days later, a couple of days where they’ve not really talked and Zayn’s only really been thinking of how he doesn’t want to be Harry’s rebound, and maybe therefore been avoiding him a lot, when Harry comes into their room, all flustered and loaded with Lidl bags. He’s panting a bit too, and the curls peeking out from beneath his beanie are drenched in water. ‘It’s raining,’ he says. It’s very odd that those are the first words Harry tells Zayn, since that night in the club. Well, he’s said stuff like ‘hi’ and ‘goodbye’ and ‘good night’ and stuff like that. But they’ve not actually talked-talked. And especially not about the fact that they’ve made out.

‘Yeah,’ Zayn says. He’s on his bed reading through an article for his seminar tomorrow. It’s not going so well and it doesn’t help that Harry’s cheeks are all red and that his eyes are a little glossed over. It’s distracting, is what it is.

‘Hey,’ Harry says. He’s still standing at the door with the Lidl bags in his hands, raincoat on. He’s dripping a bit, on their floor. ‘I brought us, er, wine. If you want to – Like, I was thinking we could go to the park. But, since it’s raining. I don’t know.’ He looks around himself as though he’s never seen the room before.

‘Oh, how nice. Um,’ Zayn says, sitting up on the bed. He doesn’t need to read the journal article. ‘I guess we could just, like, drink it here.’

Harry’s eyes shine up a little. ‘Like an indoors picnic. We can do that.’ He dumps the bags on the floor and drags the quilt on his bed down on the floor, before even taking off his jacket. ‘Come, sit,’ he says. Zayn slides down on the floor. He feels nervous all of a sudden and can’t stop thinking about when they made out in the club. Also, he should be doing his seminar work. Also, he should definitely not be drinking, seeing as he has a nine a.m. start tomorrow. Also, Harry now takes off his beanie and mushes up his hair with his hands. Also, Harry’s hands are so big.

Harry leaves the room, comes back with wine glasses and then he leaves the room again to find a corkscrew. Zayn feels dizzy with it all; Harry’s just babbling about things and he also brought grapes and crackers.

When Harry pours him wine, Zayn looks at the way Harry’s fingers are shaking a little, and thinks of how all Harry’s laughs are far too loud. ‘Hey,’ Harry says, interrupting himself from what he was talking about, this friend from home that was getting into university radio. ‘I need to, like, say this now, before we, er, drink too much. This, um, is a date, yeah?’ He speaks much faster than usual and yet Zayn processes it very slowly.

‘Yes,’ he says finally. ‘A date, yeah.’ He grins, and stretches out his leg so that it touches Harry’s calf. Harry smiles, all crinkly eyes and Zayn decides that this, this is good. He thinks about those worries he has, that he’ll be Harry’s rebound, but he also thinks about how Harry’s not been crying for so long, that he’s been much more smiley and cheerful, and he thinks that, well, he’s just going to go with it. ‘Been trying to get a date with you for ages,’ he adds. Harry puts a hand on his leg and squeezes a little. It tingles in Zayn and he literally cannot stop smiling.

‘Figured I’d need to make you chase me,’ Harry says and winks and Zayn is so stupid for being so smitten with this boy, but it’s okay. They’ll probably make out soon again, and Zayn really can’t wait for that, but he’s also really content with just sitting here on the floor with Harry’s hand on his leg and Harry’s smile just before his eyes. It’s really nice, truly.


End file.
